


Cursed Wings

by heeroluva



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Supernatural, Asexuality, Character Study, Established Relationship, Fae & Fairies, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Supernatural Elements, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 06:03:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/pseuds/heeroluva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade’s wings were both a blessing and a curse.</p><p> <i>This is set in the same universe as <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/268743">The Scent of Sherlock</a>, but that does not have to be read to understand this.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Cursed Wings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [twilightfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightfire/gifts).



> This is what I imagine Lestrade's wings look like.  
> 
> 
>    
> All mistakes are mine. Feel free to let me know if you see any. As always feedback is appreciated.

Lestrade’s wings were both a blessing and a curse. The rare days he had time to fly, to escape the city and get away from it all, were some of the best. He envied those who had wings and could walk about freely with them proudly on display. He was not so lucky, however. At least he could put them away, in a way. As a child Lestrade hadn’t minded the attention his wings brought, hadn’t thought much of it.

Wings of all shapes, sizes, and colors weren’t so strange in this world with an estimated five percent of the population having them even if they weren’t all as functional as his own. Even the colors of Lestrade’s dark blue fading to light weren’t the rarest or enough to mark him as different among people that could come in every color of the rainbow and then some. For most, it was considered taboo to touch without permission, but Lestrade had never questioned it because his parents had allowed it.

As Lestrade had gotten older, with the onslaught of puberty, he’d finally realized that his wings had drawn more attention than most, had drawn people to him, could enchant them. It had been kind of novel at first until he’d realized the magnitude of it. He didn’t want that, didn’t want to be one of those people. But the final straw had been how sensitive they’d become. The most embarrassing moment of Lestrade’s life (up until that point) had been in the middle of class when he’d developed an erection as the boy that sat behind him had stroked the suddenly sensitive feathers.

From there, it had just gotten worse until one day Lestrade had wished his wings away in a fit of fear. That they’d actually gone had been a nightmare until he realized he could bring them back. After that he’d developed a habit of keeping them away, out of sight, and things had changed. Lestrade hadn’t been the most popular of kids, but after that he’d faded into the background, keeping a few close friends and nothing more. Oh, the irony that without his wings he was free.

It had been good for a time until Lestrade had found some years later that he was nearly impotent when they were hidden away. He hadn’t been sure which was worse, not being able to get it up or having people touch his wings and what that did to him. And after a bit Lestrade had decided that that life wasn’t for him anyway. It didn’t matter what his mates thought; he hadn’t been all that interested in the opposite sex to begin with, or the same sex for that matter. It had just been expected. However, it was no hardship to do without, particularly if it meant no one touching his wings. He’d let them out when he was alone, and that was that.

But then Lestrade had gone and done something stupid: fallen in love with someone who wanted to change him. His ex-wife had been convinced it was a curse, that there was something wrong with him, and for a while, he’d tried to change. They’d visited countless specialists, both medical professionals and preternatural experts, and they’d all said the same thing; it wasn’t a curse, just simple genetics: while the prominent presentation of his blood was a _gryphon_ , somewhere in Lestrade’s ancestry was a _kelpie_ whose genes only expressed themselves as the charm linked to his wings. 

As for the rest of it, the sensitivity of his wings and the lack of interest in sex, that was just a Lestrade thing. They’d tried to give him drugs, had recommended psychiatrists for him to see, but he had no interest in that. Maybe it was selfish, but he didn’t have a problem with who he was. Laurel had never been able to accept that, and it was one of many things that had driven them apart.

After that Lestrade had sworn off dating and relationships. He had his work and his friends and that’s all he needed. Until one Mycroft Holmes had entered his life.

Lestrade’s mother had told stories of it, her beak clicking as she spoke of the day he might find the _one_ , the gift and curse of a _gryphon_. He hadn’t expected it; his blood should have been too thin, but he didn’t know what else it could be. Maybe it was love at first sight, but Lestrade had known he’d wanted to spend the rest of his life with Mycroft.

But Lestrade had balked, never liking the idea that he might not have as much free will as he thought he had. 

What had ensued was a long game of cat and mouse that Sherlock seemed to take great amusement in. Lestrade was never sure which of them was the cat and which of them the mouse, though.

But ultimately they’d caught each other, and Lestrade was shocked that the resulting clash wasn’t felt throughout London (okay, maybe he was exaggerating a bit. Theirs was a strange relationship of give and take, a tug-of-war as they’d sought to find how they fit, and they had fit, but it took some jostling, a little reworking and still the edges weren’t quite perfect. But Lestrade found he preferred it that way. Perfection was overrated.

Walking into his bedroom through his open balcony doors after a long overdue flight, Lestrade jumped as he found Mycroft sitting on the edge of the bed waiting for him. Mycroft had been called away on business and it was a rarity for him to come home early, but here he was: early. Lestrade was about to send his wings away, but Mycroft’s words stopped him.

“Please don’t.”

Had it been a command Lestrade wouldn’t have listened, but he was curious, always having wondered how Mycroft would react to them, but it was a line that he hadn’t been brave enough to cross knowing that it could change things.

As Mycroft stood and circled him, Lestrade held his breath, his claws threatening to emerge as he felt very much like prey, but finally Mycroft stopped moving, standing before him and slightly to his left. When Mycroft’s hand reached out, Lestrade’s heart cracked a bit and he flinched away, but he was startled when instead of touching a wing, Mycroft caught his hand and pulled it to his lips, laying a kiss across his palm.

“Thank you for sharing this with me. They are truly exquisite. I’ve seen pictures of then when you were a child of course, but they don’t compare to actually seeing them. And I never truly understood until now why you hid them away from the world.” Mycroft paused, pulling a shocked Lestrade to sit on the edge of the bed with him.

“But—” Lestrade wasn’t actually sure what to say.

“Oh, you mean the charm. I suppose since you’re sharing this with me, it is only fair that I share my own heritage with you. My great grandfather on my mother’s side was a _hrímthur_.”

A _jötunn_ , Lestrade’s memories from school supplied, but he wasn’t quite sure what kind.

“A frost giant, if you will. It’s why Mummy doesn’t enjoy London. Much too small for her. Much of my blood comes from that line.” Mycroft’s other hand rose and trailed down Lestrade’s bare chest.

Shivering, Lestrade looked down, wide-eyed as he took in the blue tint of Mycroft’s hand. He’d heard the rumors, there was no stopping them, but never had he thought there was any truth behind it.

The Ice Man.

“That is about the extent of that gift, however. I can freeze small quantities of water. It’s a parlor trick, nothing more. Not like Mummy who can create ice and snow from the moisture in the air. My greatest gift is of the mind. I cannot be beguiled or charmed. No glamour can fool me. And despite the promise of rapture your wings whisper across my mind they hold no pull on me.”

Lestrade was embarrassed as his throat closed up at the words. He would not cry! It suddenly made so much sense, Mycroft’s position, the advantage that he would have. But Mycroft noticed. Damn him, he always noticed.

“I had not realized the extent of your pain. I must apologize for not realizing sooner or I would have—”

“No!” Lestrade interrupted. “As much as you try to pretend that you’re all knowing there is nothing to fault you with, it’s mine. It was selfish to keep them to myself. I know it’s expected, but I couldn’t…”

Mycroft’s cool hand rose to Lestrade lips where a kiss was placed on it. “None of that. Did I mind? No. I did not push because I respected your privacy, just as you’ve respected mine. It is not selfish to keep a part of you to yourself.” Mycroft paused for a moment. “If you’d be willing, I could call in a favor and have an amulet made to block the charm on your wings.”

Lestrade was tempted, so tempted. If only it were that simple. Mycroft, the bastard saw the flush across his cheeks and understood it for what it was.

“Ah, I see.”

However, Lestrade didn’t think he did, didn’t understand what it was like. Mycroft didn’t have to hide himself from the world, keep a part of himself locked away because of what one little touch could do to him. It was a stupid impulse, but Lestrade pulled his hand free from Mycroft’s grasped and wrapping his fingers around Mycroft’s wrist, tried to tug him forward. Bloody giant strength. “Damn you, move!”

And Mycroft did, slowly, hesitantly, giving Lestrade plenty of time to pull away, but he forced himself to stay still to prepare himself for the unwanted. When the touch finally came, Lestrade couldn’t help but gasp. Mycroft tried to jerk away, could have if he really wanted to, but Lestrade dug his fingers into his wrist, and Mycroft stroked the length of a dark blue feather.

This time Lestrade did cry and he felt no shame in it. There was no pain, just the feel of the cool winds blowing across his feathers. It was wonderful and in no way sexual, and he wept for what he hadn’t known he could miss, for how can you miss what you never had. It was like coming home, and Lestrade moved forward, wrapping himself around Mycroft, never wanting to let go.

Mycroft returned the embrace, his arms wrapped around Lestrade’s back, his fingers brushing the feathers at the base of each wing.

Lestrade wasn’t sure what this was, but it was like flying, flying and falling as he followed the wind currents but so much more. As cliché as it was to say, this was the closest he’d been to heaven. He didn’t understand the how or the why. It didn’t really matter.

Sometime later when Lestrade finally pulled away, Mycroft was reluctant to let go, and that’s when the embarrassment finally hit Lestrade again, despite his best intentions.

“Gregory,” Mycroft whispered as he leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on his lips, feather-light.

And Lestrade suddenly knew. Mycroft didn’t judge him, not for this. “Thank you,” he murmured against Mycroft’s lips.

“Anything for you,” Mycroft replied, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, a true expression of happiness, not the mocking or sardonic one he usually used on others.

Mycroft never pushed for the physical, and it was one of the reasons Lestrade had fallen for him, beyond the instant attraction, the first that had truly respected his limitations. But that didn’t stop him from pushing in other ways, ways that Lestrade never knew he needed, like this, sharing this. Lestrade never would have done this on his own, not if Mycroft hadn’t been here tonight, maybe never. And it likely wasn’t Mycroft’s intention but Lestrade thanked him for that. It should have scared him that Mycroft knew him so well, that Lestrade knew he really would do anything. But it didn’t. 

This, between them, despite the constant conflict and the hectic lives that they led, had always been easy. Lestrade didn’t believe in perfection, and what he had with Mycroft was far, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. A romantic at heart, Lestrade could think of few places that he’d rather be than wrapped in Mycroft’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> I manipulated some of the creatures/folklore to fit how I wanted.


End file.
